


A Word in Season

by mswyrr



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"The Runaways." Peggy and Don talk about Ginsberg and take a step toward reconciliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Word in Season

_That I should know how to speak_  
_A word in season to him who is weary._  
  
\--Isaiah 50:4

* * *

 

 

The light was still on in Peggy’s office. Don frowned up at the glass top of the wall and then checked his watch: 7 p.m.

Don was still here because he owed Freddy one more pitch from their handshake agreement. Might as well do it here. It was satisfying work: each success felt clean and real, unspoiled by the influence of his complicated reputation. And he owed Freddy.

Freddy Rumsen was a decent man. He went around, hat in hand, pitching to whoever would listen. Taking care of his family. Looking out for burnouts and booze hounds through AA. He really seemed to have found something there. A sense of purpose.

But he wasn’t pushy about it.

Don never thought he’d meet a true believer who practiced what they preached. Who didn’t just use it as a weapon to beat other people down. He fell so far and at the bottom there was… Sally, saying _I love you_. Roger Sterling’s lingering guilt. And the friendship of Freddy Rumsen, of all people.

Hitting bottom had taught him how to be grateful. Stop fearing that he’d lose everything if people saw him. They had, and he’d lost a lot. But now he knew for sure that what remained was real. And he could fight for the rest of it.

 _Do the work, Don._

So, here he was, staying late to come up with a pitch for Oscar Mayer so Freddy could pay his mortgage.

That was his story.

But why was Peggy still around? There were no pressing accounts and the one thing that could be said for Lou is that he didn’t run her into the ground.

Don had heard something from Meredith about Michael Ginsberg being rolled out on a stretcher. He had stopped her before she gave him the full blow-by-blow, though. Having been the subject of gossip after his own meltdown he really didn’t have the stomach for pawing over the broken pieces of a man’s life.

Maybe that was it. Did Peggy need somebody to talk to? Or just to lose herself in work... Don tapped his pen against the tablet in his lap and considered checking on her.

But she didn’t want to see him. She was gritting her teeth through working with him. The most pleasure she seemed to take in his company was paying him back for being a tyrant all those years. He was sorrier than he could say that she wasn’t one of the people that remained after everything else fell apart. Sorry because he knew he’d done that: if he hadn’t pulled that shit with Ted, she would have stuck like glue. That was the kind of girl she was.

She probably was torn up over Ginsberg. But what could he do?

The sound of breaking glass made up his mind for him. He called out her name, standing and heading for the door. “You okay in there?’

There was a pause. “Don?” she called back. She didn’t sound pleased.

When he pulled open her door she was glaring up at him. She was kneeling over a broken glass near her desk. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Her hair and the cute bow on her dress were askew.

Clearly she’d had a few drinks before the glass broke.

“Peggy—“

“I’m fine,” she bit out as she started reaching to pick up the pieces, “you can go.”

Don moved forward, bending down to grab her hands.

She looked like she was about to bite. “ _What_ are you—”

“You’re going to cut yourself,” he said. “Just let me,” he grabbed an empty wastepaper basket to put over the mess.  “…okay?”

Peggy frowned down at it. “I didn’t think of that,” she said, sounding resentful. Then she pulled herself up and over to the couch, where she slumped down, lighting a cigarette.

After a minute she looked up at him. “Why are you still here?” The way she asked seemed to imply a larger question.

He answered the narrower one, shrugging. “I’m worried about you. I heard – about Michael.”

“Michael,” she repeated. Don watched her face tighten as she fought tears. “They took him away from…” she swallowed hard, her faced even more pained, “that chair right there,” she finished, pointing. Then she burst into tears.

Don froze, staring. The hand that wasn’t holding her cigarette was pressed to her eyes as she made choked sobbing noises that broke his heart.

He pulled out his handkerchief and passed it to her as he sat down on the couch. She clutched at it, still sobbing.

He thought about the time he’d cried in front of her, the way she rubbed soothing circles against his back and made everything feel… if not okay, then endurable. Survivable.

She’d given him hope.

And then, like a drowning man, he had dragged down the person trying to keep his head above water. Clinging too tight or lashing out. Throwing money in her face like she was a whore, for christ’s sakes. Until all she wanted to do was sock him in the jaw to get away.

Or take another job.

And he’d still found a way to shove her back in her box. The merger, fighting over her with Ted like she was a toy, punishing her with the St. Joseph’s meeting… He could still remember the look of disgust on her face.

_You’re a monster._

So, no, he didn’t think she’d want comfort from him. Even as his palm ached to stroke her back, tell her it was okay. He sat with his hands folded, and tried to face things. That had helped with Sally. Just being there, facing things. Not running away.

It had shocked him how much good that could do.

When the storm passed, Peggy wiped at her eyes. “Can you get me a drink?”

He got them both one. No drinking in the office except for client hospitality, that was one of the rules his career and fortune hanged on. But he’d thrown out the rest of the rules at lunch with Philip Morris, so what did another one matter? He passed her a glass then sat beside her again, hoping that somebody’s—anybody’s—presence might help.

“He came by my place,” she said. Her voice sounded remote, all the emotion bled out of it. He wasn’t sure she was even talking to him anymore. “He was so upset.” She took a long drink of the whiskey, sighed. “Talking nonsense. And then he was on top of me…”

Don’s stomach bottomed out. “Did he—?“ Ginsberg didn’t seem like he had a violent bone in his body. But if he was sick in the head…

She turned her head, frowning. “What? No. _No_. He was half out of his mind but he stopped, he didn’t want to hurt me, he—“ tears were coming to her eyes again, “he’s a not a bad person. He’s had,” she wiped angrily at her eyes, “a hard life. He went through terrible things.”

Things she clearly knew about, though she didn’t give details. Wouldn’t betray a confidence like that.

Don imagined Ginsberg pouring out his heart to her. Crying in front of her. Peggy’s hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles, and felt a kinship with the kid rather than jealous. It was ridiculous that it hadn’t occurred to him she might be like that with other people until he saw her hand on Ted’s arm.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” Peggy continued. “He doesn’t deserve any of it.”

“He doesn’t,” Don said, making agreeable noises. Hoping it helped.

“Stan went to see him,” Peggy said, then shook her head. “But I can’t.” She met his eyes: “I swore I’d never set foot in one of those places again. And I can’t.” There was such raw guilt in her expression. “I _can’t_.”

“Write him,” Don said, glad to finally have something helpful to say. “Maybe even tell him why you can’t come in your letter. If you want. If he knows you had…” Don thought about how broken she had looked in that psych ward and found the best euphemism he could, “hard times too, then he’ll know people can come through it. Hearing that can make all the difference.”

Her face softened, considering. “You really think so?”

“I do,” he said. Sometimes all you needed was somebody to let you know there was a way out. “But even if you don’t want to tell him, you can just write. It’ll mean a lot to him. He’ll probably feel ashamed once he’s getting better and knowing you forgive him…” Don’s own feelings were starting to come into this and he pushed them aside, continued on more objectively. This was about her and the kid, not him. “It will probably take a weight off his mind.”

“I'll think about it,” she said. She folded his handkerchief with a kind of slow tenderness and set it on the couch between them. She pressed her hand to it and said “Thank you,” sounding like the formal and prim girl she had been her first day. Good little Catholic girl in white gloves and a pillbox hat. Then she got up and walked to the window. “Goodnight, Don,” she said, without looking back.

“Goodnight,” he said, and left feeling… not happy. Or even very good. It wasn’t a fun conversation. But he felt the strange satisfaction he’d learned recently. The kind that came from sticking with something that hurt. Not running away. It was sore and sad, but not the blank despair that sent him deep into a bottle. Some things couldn’t be mended. But some things could, even if just a little bit.

 

-end-


End file.
